


Resolution

by sahiya



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-28 20:33:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahiya/pseuds/sahiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2011 was a bad year for Neal. Fortunately, El is happy to help him let it go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resolution

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lefaym](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lefaym/gifts).



> Happy Holidays, Lefaym!

Neal's New Year's was shaping up to be a lot like his Christmas: quiet, uneventful . . . lonely. He decided to drink a bottle of wine, watch the ball drop on TV, and go to bed. It was all the acknowledgement that 2011 deserved, anyway.

He was half a glass into this plan when his phone rang. Glancing at the caller ID, he raised his eyebrows. El and Peter had had plans for tonight, Neal knew, some sort of soirée at the Dearmitt Gallery that El had been very excited about and Peter very resigned to. There wasn’t any reason Neal could think of for Elizabeth to be calling him at 7:30 on New Year’s Eve. "Hi, Elizabeth."

"Hey, Neal. Happy New Year!"

"Happy New Year to you, too. I thought you and Peter would be at the Dearmitt Gallery by now."

"Yeah, that was the plan," Elizabeth sighed, "but Peter woke up this morning with a fever. He's sick as a dog with the flu, so we're both spending tonight in."

Neal frowned. "That's a shame. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. It was going to be more work than play anyway. But the upshot is, I'm home, Peter's mostly asleep, and I was wondering if you'd like to come have dinner and ring in the new year with me."

Neal went very still. He and Peter and El were back to normal, more or less, but there hadn't been any invitations to dinner at the house since they'd caught Keller. "Yes," he managed, just before the silence became awkward. "I'd love that. What should I bring?"

"A bottle of wine, if you like. But mostly just yourself."

“You got it.” Neal hung up, turned off the television, and corked his bottle. He hadn’t realized how depressed his so-called plans for the evening had made him until they were suddenly altered. There were four and a half hours left in 2011, and while he doubted the year could possibly redeem itself now, at least he wouldn’t be drunk, depressed, and alone at midnight.

Neal made a brief stop at his local Duane Reade, then hailed a cab. Half an hour saw him mounting the Burkes' front steps. He knocked, and El answered, looking relaxed in loose yoga pants and one of Peter's shirts. "Come in," she said, standing back. "Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year," he said, kissing her cheek. He offered her his hostess gifts: a bottle of champagne, a dozen roses, and, for Peter, an array of the finest cold and flu remedies the drugstore had to offer.

El laughed when she saw the contents of the bag. "Take these to Peter," she told Neal, gesturing with her head toward the living room. "Dinner'll be ready in just a few minutes."

Peter was slumped in his recliner, staring glassy-eyed at a football game on TV. He wore sweatpants and a threadbare t-shirt, and had a box of tissues, a mug, and a scattering of bottles on the end table beside his chair. "You know," Neal said, removing his hat, "you get these things called 'sick days.' You don't have to go on vacation just to catch the flu."

Peter glared half-heartedly. "Don't be a smartass."

"Peter," Neal pressed a hand to his heart, "you're unjust. And when I brought you a present." He held out the bag of throat lozenges, decongestants, and Theraflu. Peter took it with a narrow-eyed stare, looked inside, and chuckled. The chuckle turned into a cough, and Peter winced, pressing a hand to his chest.

"Thanks," he said, sounding grudgingly grateful. "And happy New Year, by the way. I appreciate you keeping El company."

Neal shook his head and seated himself on the sofa. "It's my pleasure. How was your Christmas?"

"All right. I like being upstate for the holiday, but El's sister's kids drive me sort of crazy. How was yours?"

"Quiet," Neal said. "June's family is skiing in Vermont."

Peter glanced at him sideways. "And you didn't hear from . . . anybody else?"

By which he meant Mozzie. "No," Neal said. "But I didn't expect to."

Peter nodded. He looked as though he were about to say something else, but to Neal's relief, El appeared to tell them dinner was ready. Neal helped her bring out the plates and cutlery, and he opened a bottle of Pinot Noir for him and El to have with their dinner. They would be dining on Cornish game hens with roasted garlic potatoes and asparagus. Peter would be having chicken soup, tea, and toast.

"I hate this," Peter said, when he saw the table.

"Aww, honey," El said, wrapping her arms around him. "At least the soup's homemade?"

"And I'm sure it's delicious," Peter said, pressing his lips to the crown of her head. “Sorry, I know I’m being a grump.” He dropped down into his chair, and El squeezed his shoulder before seating herself beside him.

The food was delicious; El didn't have time to cook very often, but when she did, it was always amazing. Neal and El chatted amiably as they ate about Elizabeth's family upstate, about Neal's latest art project, about the trip to San Francisco she had planned for January. Peter was quiet as he ate his soup and nibbled at his toast. Eventually, he pushed his bowl aside and said, "I'm going to go lie down upstairs. Wake me before midnight?"

"Sure, sweetie," El said, stroking Peter's face briefly with her fingers. "Do you need anything?"

"Nah, I'm okay. Thanks." Peter went upstairs, his footsteps slow and heavy on the stairs.

Neal sipped his wine and raised his eyebrows at El. "He looks terrible."

El helped herself to more asparagus. "He's actually a little better than he was this morning. He was upset about not being able to go to the gala tonight - not that he was looking forward to it, but he knew I was."

"You could have still gone," Neal said, taking a bite of hen.

El shook her head. "In the twelve years we've been together, Peter and I have never spent a New Year's Eve apart. I wouldn't have been able to enjoy myself, knowing he was sick at home, alone. Besides,” she added with a small smile, “I’ve missed you.”

Neal managed to return her smile. “I’ve missed you, too.”

“We’ll do less of that in 2012,” El said, holding her glass up for a toast. “Promise?”

“Promise,” Neal said, and tapped his glass against hers.

They cleared the table and did the dishes together. El had bought a selection of delicacies from her favorite Italian bakery; Neal arranged them on a tray and made them coffee with cream and Kahlua while El took a glass of orange juice up to Peter. He carried the tray with the coffee and the pastries out to the living room, placed the tray on the coffee table, and was just channel surfing for the Times Square festivities when El came downstairs. He turned the volume down to a murmur as she appeared.

"Out like a light," she reported. "Ooh, this looks lovely, Neal. Thank you." She sank down onto the couch beside him, close enough that he could put his arm around her if he wanted to.

He handed her a saucer with coffee and a cannoli. "Thank _you_ for asking me tonight. I'm really glad you did."

El's smile was a little sad. "I thought you might want some help saying good-bye to 2011."

Neal nodded, looking down at his own coffee. "You might be right."

"You have any resolutions for 2012?"

"Just one." Neal drew a deep breath. "I'd like to get through the year without hurting anyone. I hurt so many people this year. I didn't mean to, but I did, either because of things I did, or things I didn't do. Sometimes both at once. I know I've said it before, El, but -"

"Don't, Neal," she said, reaching over to place her hand on top of his. "I didn't ask you over so you could apologize to me again. You've done enough of that. But that is a good resolution. Please tell me if there's anything I can do to help you with it."

He nodded. "Thanks. What about you? Any resolutions?"

She shrugged. "Oh, you know. Get to the gym three times a week. Hold my temper when I talk to sister's husband. Eat more salad. The usual. Anyway," she squeezed his hand one last time, "enough of that. Dick Clark?"

"It's traditional," Neal said, and used the remote to turn up the volume before settling back on the sofa. El curled her feet up under her and leaned into him. "You ever been in Times Square on New Year's Eve?"

El nodded. "When I was twenty or so. I had a good time, but once was enough. And Peter would hate it. You?"

Neal shook his head. "It's cold, it's crowded, and everyone is falling-down drunk. I'd much rather be here."

"Me too," El said, with a smile. She leaned back into his arm and laid her head on his shoulder.

By the time 11:55 rolled around, they were both slightly drunk and sleepy, but they roused themselves to wake Peter and pop the champagne. El went upstairs to take care of the former, while Neal went into the kitchen to handle the latter. He located the champagne flutes and filled two with champagne and one with orange juice and sparkling water.

Peter looked flushed and distinctly rumpled when he shuffled downstairs behind El. "Thanks," he said, accepting his orange juice.

“Thirty seconds,” El announced, holding her champagne at the ready.

They counted down together. _10-9-8-7 . . ._ Neal thought about a warehouse full of treasure, about old friendships and loyalty, about the expression on Peter's face the night Keller took El, and about the look on both their faces when they'd found her. About the night Mozzie finally left for good, and the night Peter forgave him. By the stroke of midnight, he had a lump in his throat, and it only tightened when he saw El kiss Peter, germs and all, and then wrap her arms around him and press her face into his chest.

Then they turned to him. Some of what he was feeling must have shown in his face, because El's smile dipped a little in one corner. She held her champagne flute out and he tapped it with his own before letting her fold him into a hug. He squeezed his eyes shut, and when she let him go, Peter was standing right in front of him.

"Peter," Neal said, but Peter shook his head, cutting off anything else he might have said.

"Clean slate, all right?" Peter said. "That's my resolution."

Neal managed a smile. "That works well with mine. I'm going to do better, Peter."

"Good," Peter said, and pulled him close for a hug. "That's good."

"Yeah," Neal said, and hid his damp eyes behind a long sip of champagne. "It is."

 _Fin._


End file.
